Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/294

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Uprose the moon, the Queen of night Danc'd with the Protean tide, And years fulfill'd their measur'd flight, And ripening ages died, Slow centuries in oblivion's flood Sank like the tossing wave, But changeless and transfix'd ye stood, The dead without a grave.

The infant wrought its flowery span On Love's maternal breast, And whiten'd to a hoary man, And laid him down to rest, Race after race, with weary moan Went to their dreamless sleep, While ye, upon your feet of stone, Perpetual penance keep.

How little deem'd ye, when ye hurl'd    Your challenge o'er the main, And vow'd to teach a new-born world The vassalage of Spain, Thus till the doom's-day cry of pain Shall rive your prison-rock, To bear upon your brow like Cain, A mark that all might mock.

But long from high Castilian bowers Look'd forth the inmates fair, And gave the tardy midnight hours To watching and despair,